


Falling to Pieces

by timeless_alice



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Perceptor Talks About His Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:16:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12601200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeless_alice/pseuds/timeless_alice
Summary: Perceptor struggles in the aftermath of Overlord's attack, and Rung tries to help.Sequel to "For a Definition of Useful" but that does not need to be read.





	Falling to Pieces

The war was over, and with it came a strange feeling of emptiness that sat at the base of Perceptor’s throat. His objective mind knew this simple, inarguable fact, but instinct and long ignored emotional parts of him lingered in the possibility that this was just another dip in the fighting. That at any given moment he would be back out in the thick of the fighting, an inch away from getting killed. At the knife’s edge of fight or flight at all times. Just as it had always been since the war began.

After so long with the Wreckers, with careful practice detaching himself from personal thoughts on any given trauma or tragedy, he was sure no one onboard the Lost Light would be able to notice any shift in his personality. They’d all been changed by millennia of brutal fighting, after all, and it was not as if many of them had known him prior to the war to start with. He tried to avoid dwelling on it, for fear that acknowledging the depths of the disparities between a “then” and “now” would thrust him into a black hole, where he’d be crushed under the weight of everything that’s happened to him.

The tumultuous life of the Lost Light meant his mind was almost always occupied with one thing or another, trying to keep the ship from falling apart. Or keep the crew from getting themselves killed. But on occasion, when his work took him past acceptable waking hours and the ship was no longer teeming with the life of its inhabitants, with his lab being quiet save for the gentle ambiance of the ship, his mind would wander. It would touch on the battles he’d fought, the death and destruction and total failures he’d witnessed, no matter how hard he struggled to focus on anything else. Eventually, a feeling of unreality would take hold. It would numb his finger tips and then race up his circuits like static, jagged talons stealing all other sensations from him, until his whole body buzzed.

He’d stand in the safety of his lab, with shaking hands and all systems kicking into a frantic overdrive, as he struggled to ground himself. Most times it passed after only a moment, when he was able to regain control and compartmentalize, so he could resume what he had been doing. On rare occasions he’d be frozen in place, catching glimpses of deep, haunting red out of the corner of his eye, or hearing screams that sounded like they were miles away. When those passed, he was left with a horrified tightness in his throat and a strong desire to get drunk, so he wouldn’t dream when he passed out. It took a long time to detangle himself from the fear, afterwards, and at the end he’d feel numb, hollowed out.

Like someone had reached into his chest and carved out everything that mattered to him, leaving only machinery that went through the motions. An ever present feeling, but drawn into sharp focus.

Hours after defeating Tyrest, stopping the killswitch, and contacting home after a year of radio silence, Perceptor stood in the center of his destroyed lab. He nudged a bit of ruined equipment with his foot, frowning as it slid across the room until it collided with another piece of debris. He wondered, dimly, light years away from where he was currently standing, if Overlord found the time in his rampage to tear the lab apart; maybe he knew it was his, or maybe some mechs tried to take refuge inside, and he found them. Or perhaps, he noted with a shaking weakness that was creeping through his whole body, it was simply the Legislators, tearing through the ship on their single-minded mission. It was not as if he had been there since the alarm signalling the beginning of Overlord’s attack had gone off, confined as he was to the medibay in the aftermath.

_ \-  he was on his back in swerve’s his rifle just out of reach overlord looming over him and a pressure on his chest pressing down down down slowly and methodically to crush his spark - _

Perceptor’s hands shook as wrapped his arms around himself in something akin to a reassuring hug, trembling fingers touching metal that had crumpled with such ease under Overlord’s impressive mass. The injuries had been healed, seamless, not a single physical trace left behind. But the memory crowded his thoughts, no longer barred by the more pressing matter of Luna-1 and Tyrest, demanding his full attention in this new lull of time.

_ \-  overlord’s voice in his ear a hushed laughing “i’m going to kill everyone on this ship and then show you your failure before i kill you”  _

_ his own voice desperate pleading begging overlord to just kill him and leave the rest of the ship alone - _

Perceptor had worked hard to distance himself from the disaster that was Garrus-9. He never spoke about his time as a Wrecker, he ignored all of Whirl’s prodding and goading, he’d even avoided Fortress Maximus, to his great shame. To see him alive and functioning was a weight off his shoulders, a reminder that the mission had not been a complete failure, but each passing of him in the hall sent Perceptor right outside of the Aequitas chamber once again, to have the ex-prisoners at his heels ready to tear him apart and present his remains to Overlord for his promised reward. It was better for himself to stay away, to close off that part of himself and continue on.

Even after Max’s nervous breakdown, forcing Perceptor’s relief at seeing him alive onto unstable ground as the reality of Max’s situation became impossible to ignore, he did have one thing to cling to. One thing he thought was irrevocable, rock solid and true: Overlord was gone for good, and all the deaths and losses had been worth it. Acquiring the Aequitas data may have been nothing more than covering up heinous crimes that perhaps deserved to see the light of day, and the autobots imprisoned there may have perished, but Overlord could no longer harm anyone else.

- _ overlords eyes meeting his a smile on his lips cold cold terror freezing perceptor to the spot - _

An acute sense of betrayal, burning and stifling and creeping through his entire being in its desire to overtake him. He grew hot, agitated systems kicking in to match the whirlwind in his mind; thoughts of the promise made by High Command, that Overlord was gone forever dragged themselves through him on jagged hooks as he pieced together a list of who must have known. Rodimus, of course, and no doubt Prowl was involved, but he couldn't possibly have worked alone, Overlord was too high profile. Not to mention the fact he had been repaired to near complete function, lacking only his weapons. 

All the negative feelings that festered and burned in him, some of which having laid dormant for years, bubbled their way to the forefront, blooming in his chest and crawling their way up his throat to choke him. In a moment of unrestrained fury, an understanding that the Wreckers had failed and High Command did not care about it having rooted in him, he reached down to grab a loose piece of metal of unknown original and threw it with a low, guttural snarl; it smashed into something, resulting in a sound of shattering glass that roared in the otherwise silent room, and left Perceptor feeling no better. The fury and betrayal ebbed after a second, leaving only a sensation of being alone. Tiny and isolated. 

Perceptor pressed his palms to his optics, trying to catch the coolant he was sure would start leaking at any moment. He tried to collect himself, push away thoughts of Overlord and Garrus-9 so he could focus on cleaning his lab. There was a task to be done that had been put off long enough, he told himself, firm and chastising for daring to linger on such things.

The familiar numbness settled back into him, and it was almost welcome. Feeling nothing was preferable to fear, he thought, and allowed him to set to work. Something rhythmic, absent minded. Something to occupy him for the next several hours.

That was, until there was a light knocking on the door frame, followed by Rung calling out, “Are you busy?”

Perceptor put down the sheet of crumpled metal he had picked up, and turned to face Rung, who stood in what remained of the lab’s obliterated doorway. Perceptor put on a strained smile that he hoped came across as reserved.“I’m just doing some cleaning I shouldn't have been neglecting. What can I do for you?”

Rung picked his way into the lab, taking careful steps to find ground not covered in debris. “No one will blame you for putting it off,” he said in that eternally patient voice of his. “We've been busy the past few days.”

As he approached, Perceptor worked to lock down his emotions even more securely. Rung did not have the physique to help, so the nature of his visit was likely more conversational, and Perceptor had no intention of letting himself dwell on the past. He turned around to return to work.

“We may have been busy but that's no excuse,” he said. “A scientist should keep his lab in pristine condition.”

Rung made a soft “hmm”ing noise, and must have nudged a piece of metal judging from the resulting screeching sound, followed by a loud clang of metal hitting metal. “I've been told you were in the medibay up until we found Luna-1. You didn't really have the time.”

“Nonetheless, I could have started.” Perceptor paused, and tapped his knuckles against his breastplate a single time. “Now, Rung, I’m sure you aren't here to talk to me about the state of my lab.” He turned to face him, to see Rung’s steepled fingers and thoughtful expression.

“No, I’m not. Actually, Magnus asked me to check in on you.”

Two rapid knocks on his breastplate. Perceptor frowned, and let out a low huff. Of course, Overlord would be weighing heavily on Magnus’ conscience; it was no secret, even long before Overlord had reappeared on the ship, that Magnus bore a substantial amount of guilt for what had happened on Garrus-9. It was evident in the way he spoke to him, the looks he gave Perceptor as they passed in the halls. Not that Perceptor thought it mattered in the grand scheme of things. Magnus would have just been another body devoured by the mission, yet another casualty to eat away at Perceptor in quiet hours.

“You may tell Magnus that I’m fine,” Perceptor said, even as he fought against memories of Fort Max and Springer and Pyro and Rotorstorm and the jumpstarters. He flicked his hands, expelling phantom energon that would never truly be gone. “A little shaken, truth be told, but nothing to worry about.”

Rung considered him for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed and head tilted slightly to the side, and Perceptor hoped his thoughts were on leaving him alone. But instead he spoke, in a careful measured tone, “You're the only one on board who fought Overlord before, are you sure you have nothing you want to talk about?”

Perceptor paused, something in his chest tightening at the realization that Rung likely knew about Overlord’s sudden, single-minded focus on hunting Perceptor down upon seeing him. Of course, everyone must have known. It would be hard to keep that thing secret; he only hoped that his terror and pleading in Swerve’s would be kept between himself and Hoist. He supposed footage from ship cameras would exist, but he could ask Magnus to delete it and keep it from prying eyes. Though, Rewind-

He stopped, going still. Something in him threatened to snap under the weight Rewind’s name brought to his chest. Perceptor cleared his throat and said, barely above a whisper, “Could you tell Chromedome I'm sorry?” He paused, for just a moment, and said, in a voice much more cool and even and detached, “I’m too busy to do it myself.”

Rung watched him in silence, and Perceptor grew increasingly aware of how scrutinous he could be; with that awareness came a sensation of discomfort jumping across his circuits. Even before the war, Perceptor did not enjoy being examined in such a way; a picking apart to leave him in his most basic components. And that was, he knew, something Rung excelled in.

“That isn’t it, is it?” Rung asked. He took a step forward, and Perceptor didn’t move, though he also made no attempt at a reply. Rung continued, “If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll leave you alone. But I think, and you’ll forgive me for saying this, that maybe you should talk to someone.”

“Rung, I cannot express enough that there’s nothing to talk about,” Perceptor snapped, more aggressive than he anticipated. A result of a flare of emotion that he was slowly but surely losing his grasp on. Even Rung seemed surprised, eyebrows shooting up and him taking a step back. Perceptor raised a trembling hand, impossible to still, to touch at his side before knocking lightly on his breastplate. Part of him, a large part that had taken control for the last several years, wished to be left alone. To tell Rung to leave him be, that had already lashed out. But a small part of him from before the war seized control, and before he could stop himself Perceptor said, “High command failed the ship.  _ I  _ failed the ship. Let us just leave it at that. Just. Please tell Chromedome I'm sorry.”

It was almost embarrassing, he thought, how easily he was falling apart with very little provocation from Rung. But several years worth of pent up emotions and trauma fought to be heard, after he went so long without hearing anyone ask if he needed to talk. Perceptor couldn't remember the last time he'd been asked if he was all right, after all the things he had gone through, when things were peaceful and he had no pressing reason to compartmentalize. Memories from Turmoil’s ship, from Garrus-9, bubbled to the surface of his thoughts and he pushed them down, though he shook so fiercely that he threatened to rattle right out of his plating.

The memories slipped through the cracks in any mental fortification he put up, flooding him until he was drowning, as if his vents were clogged and systems jammed. And he was back on the floor in Swerve’s on the verge of losing consciousness, vaguely aware of Hoist leaning over him and trying to prying his breastplate away, to keep the metal from collapsing and his spark from being crushed between the heavy glass and the floor. The words “I'm sorry,” tumbling out of Perceptor’s mouth over and over, distorted and falling apart as his voxbox failed.

Rung’s hand on his arm, firm enough to be grounding, slammed Perceptor back into reality. He mumbled an apology, realizing with a flash of embarrassment that he had actually been saying the words aloud instead of just repeating them in his head.

“Shh,” Rung said, soft and soothing. “You're all right, Perceptor. You're safe now, we all are.”

Perceptor made no effort to reply, instead letting Rung guide him until they were both sitting on the floor. Perceptor focused on some point in the distance, struggling to keep himself in the present; he focused on Rung’s hand still pressed against him in an attempt to keep himself from falling into his memories again. He pulled his knees towards his chest, just a little, wanting to look as small as he felt. A low, scared whine escaped him, a noise so undignified for someone of his standing and reputation. Rung passed no judgement, or if he did Perceptor was not able to notice it through all his trauma surging to the surface and he gave Perceptor a light pat on the back.

“I don't feel like anyone on this ship thinks you failed them,” he said. “Overlord caught us all off guard. You did what you could.”

The ghost of his words to Hoist in Swerve’s, before Overlord broke in, echoed in Perceptor’s ears. An assurance to Hoist that he’d see what he could do, moments before Overlord took him out of the fight. He flexed his hands between his knees, mouth settling into a hard line. “But I'd fought him before.” His voice cracked, on the verge of failure as everything started to become too much. He wanted to vanish into the floor, at least for a little while, until he could piece back together all the ragged parts of him and pretend everything was alright again. 

“You were on Garrus-9,” Rung said pointedly, as if it would make a difference. “You  _ survived  _ Garrus-9.”

The word change buried its way into him, digging its sharp talons into his spark. Perceptor curled in on himself even tighter with another scared sound, this one even more pitiful and broken than the last.

“Saying I survived Garrus-9 makes it seem like I went through something similar to what Fortress Maximus went through,” he said, a sharp admonishment of his own feelings. “Or...or what Springer went through.” For an instant he was back at Garrus-9, too stunned to move as Overlord powered through Springer's barrage of bullets. Too slow to react to Overlord tearing off Springer’s face with ease with a single swipe of his arm.

“This isn't a competition.” Rung’s voice remained even, gentle. “Your hurt is just as real and deserving to be felt as theirs.” 

Perceptor stared at his fingers as they clenched into fists and unclenched, as if they would provide him some secret as to how he should handle this situation. How to handle himself. It occurred to him that while he did not enjoy of being laid bare before Rung, he enjoyed his presence. Quiet and seemingly without judgment; a sort of comfort Perceptor had not realized he’d been missing, been needing, the past several years. But he could still not bring himself to speak.

As if sensing Perceptor’s reluctance, Rung continued, “Everyone in this war’s been affected by it. Closing yourself off and downplaying what happened seems appealing, but you owe yourself the kindness of not being alone in it.” 

Despite himself, Perceptor scoffed. He had always considered himself good natured and someone with a kind spark, but as the war raged on it felt like a trait that was slipping. The last semblance of his past life falling through his fingers as he tried to cling to it. He was losing himself; perhaps he had been lost on Turmoil’s ship after all. Dead in all the ways that mattered.

“Don't you think you owe it to yourself? Who you used to be?” Rung asked.

Perceptor could have laughed, but he felt too hollow to manage to energy to do so. Instead he spoke, in a voice that wavered in places and threatened to crack at any moment, “You know what I think?” he said, without expecting a reply, nor even really waiting for one. “If I were to meet myself from before the war, perhaps even from just before Kup was repaired, he would hate me.” There was a silent “so why should I bother” tacked on.

There was a stretch of silence, as Rung contemplated how to reply. Or thinking how he could come up with an excuse to leave. Perceptor didn't want to be alone, but as his vent fans roared to cool his overheated body, he didn't want to talk about what happened.

“And why do you say that?” His voice kept the same careful tone, and Perceptor burned under it.

“Look at me! Look what I've done to myself.” His hands moved to clasp his modified forearms, made slender to help him with firing his rifle. Only one modification of many. His fingers curled as if to tear at the plating.

“Percy, would you like my opinion?” Perceptor could not bring himself to look at Rung. In the absence of a reply, Rung continued, “I think that if you met yourself from before the war, he'd think you were someone marked by tragedy and trauma, who is just as deserving of kindness as everyone else.” He placed a hands over Perceptor’s, easing it open before he hurt himself, and said, “Do you, present you, hate what you've become?” 

Perceptor was silent for a long moment, then offered a muttered, “Yes.” He saw no point in lying.

“And why is that?”

A million and one reasons chased themselves around in Perceptor's head, dizzying as they spinner around and reminded him of every one of his failures. Facts of how, despite his extreme modification, his ability with a gun was not enough to save others. He heard Blaster, shocked in the moment, accusing him of mutilating himself and pushing himself away from his proper role. And though Blaster had since apologized, admitting that Perceptor had caught him off guard, Perceptor ceded a bit of truth to his words; what he'd done was dangerous, extreme, with some irreparable results. He reached to touch his crosshairs. His plating felt wet, from coolant that was beginning to leak from under the eyepiece, trapped underneath the glass. In the end, he said simply, “I failed myself.”

Coolant cascaded down his face once he removed his crosshairs, and the room dove into a familiar mess of blurred images, right optic struggling to agree with his left. A reminder of his own recklessness; permanent damage from an improperly healed eye compounded by his actions in the aftermath. He considered shutting it down, leaving only the left optic operational, but decided against it. Too obvious. He would live with the confusing stream of information. For a moment, he considered throwing his crosshairs across the room, with enough force that it may shatter into hundreds of pieces. But he only squeezed it, not even hard enough to crack the glass. 

“And how did you do that?” Gentle prying, with no air of believing that Perceptor’s reasons for self loathing had any proper merit, even before he revealed them.

“It’s hard to say any one thing.” He turned his crosshairs over, frowning. His voxbox stuttered as heat continued to pulse through him and seized up systems. “I didn’t do enough.” He left the rest of the list unspoken, hundreds upon hundreds of things that he had done in the war that left him with crawling with disgust. Energon from so many was on his hands and he was slick with it; he remembered how easily he had condemned Impactor to death in the Aequitas chamber, lost in pragmatism of the moment with so many Decepticons breaking down the door. He remembered how he had lost every member of his group, one by one, as he was unable to save them. 

Every loss during Overlord’s rampage was another death to his count. He was crushed under the weight of all of them; everyone from Garrus-9, everyone from the Lost Light, too many for him to name.

Rung was silent for another long stretch of time, leaving the ambience of the ship and the violent whirring of Perceptor’s fans the only noise in the room. Perceptor considered, for a moment, standing up to complete his original task of cleaning, if only to have something else to think about, but he was sure that his legs would collapse beneath him. So he remained on the floor, knees huddled to his chest and scope pointing downward, as small as he could make himself.

“You couldn't have stopped Overlord on your own,” Rung said finally. “No one would ever blame you for that. What I think is more important is that you helped stop the killswitch.” Perceptor looked at him, thankful for a brief moment that Rung was seated on his left side, and watched Rung’s thoughtful expression. Their eyes met. “Perceptor, you saved so many lives on Luna-1. Doesn't that mean anything?”

Perceptor fit his crosshairs back into place, snapping the world back into perfect clarity. “It doesn't change anything.”

“But it does,” Rung said, firmly, as if getting a little exasperated with Perceptor. Or, perhaps, Perceptor was only projecting his own feelings onto him. It was near impossible for him to tell at that point. “I’m not going to force you to think differently, but you’re doing the best you can. You’re still a good bot, despite everything.”

Perceptor didn’t believe it, not really, but didn’t raise a counterpoint. He rubbed away more coolant from his face with his palm, shame flashing through him at the extreme display of emotion. But Rung didn’t seem to mind, as he made no comment on it and merely removed his glasses to polish them in the stretch of silence that went on between them, before sliding them back into place. Perceptor was always surprised at how much a difference the glasses made for Rung, how much more approachable he looked, and for a short moment he was distracted by thoughts of whether or not Rung truly needed glasses, or if he just used them for aesthetic’s sake. The thought landed on yes, he likely did need them to see, because why else would he wear them, before it inevitably cycled back to his own mistakes.

A small voice in the back of his head proposed he swap his crosshairs out for a set of glasses. But the idea sent a jolt of terror through him, an ingrained response from years as a combatant. He could be called back into action at any time, and he would not be caught unawares again. He hated the reaction, and not for the first time he wished he had disobeyed Prowl so he would never had gotten to this point.

“You know, Perceptor,” Rung said as it became evident that Perceptor was not going to say anything. “I know that you’re more closed off than you used to be, and I know that you’re more reserved. But you still try. And while I won’t lie and say you can go back to who you used to be, you aren’t the lost cause you seem to think you are.” He patted Perceptor’s arm and gave him a small, gentle smile. 

Doubt still swam in his mind, but Perceptor did not counter him. Did not say anything. He felt a little lighter, having thrown to the world how he felt after so long keeping it under tight lock and key, a festering ball of self loathing that ate away at him the longer he kept it to himself. They sat without speaking for minutes, and Perceptor’s systems began to slow and cool to something approaching normal; he still shook, but was not at the threat of falling to pieces on the floor. He was, ultimately, grateful for Rung’s company, quiet and reassuring as it was. His energy did not take up a room, as Perceptor had become used to with others. Nothing loud or demanding, and Perceptor found a comfortingly warm sense of appreciation roll through him.

“Thank you, Rung,” he said, unfurling himself to get to his feet. He shook out his limbs, and drew his calmer mind back to the deeds that needed to be done. He turned to help Rung stand as well. “Now.” He smiled, tight and reserved but a little more genuine. “I’ll get to work cleaning up here, and then I’ll speak to Magnus about.” He paused, guilt beginning to gnaw at him. “About contacting Verity Carlo. I should think she deserves an explanation from the both of us.”

“That’s a good idea. And if you need me, I’ll be in my office, all right?”

Perceptor gave an affirmative as Rung left him to his own devices, with the sinking knowledge that he would make no promises on that offer.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm timelessmulder on tumblr
> 
> sorry things got kind of messy in the middle


End file.
